


Dead on Arrival

by courfelicious



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, also yeah there's death, and two onld man being bitter and ridiculous, because i fucking loved that film, loosely inspired by Crimson Peak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfelicious/pseuds/courfelicious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot for the FrUK Halloween Week of 2015, day 4: A Taste of Poison - Two nobleman discuss business during dinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead on Arrival

The decadence of the dining room was accentuated by the low light, as everything was illuminated only by a few candle lights scattered around, and the fireplace at the other side of the room, giving the place a rather macabre air. The room had clearly seen it’s days of glory, but those had been long past. The washed out red velvet curtains, that now could even pass for pink in some places, the pealing golden paint of the table and chairs metal frames, the rich but ragged upholstery fabrics and the dented and mismatched fine china in which the dinner had been served all contributed to give away the truth.

It was true that enough food had been served for it to be called a banquet that night. Way more than could ever be consumed by him and his host alone, but he was sure that had been but a move to try and impress him, and Francis was no fool.

And yet, the posture and smile of the Englishman sitting in front of him would say the opposite, as he moved and talked with the pride of a nobleman in the peak of his glory. If Francis didn’t know best, if he hadn’t known the other man for almost all of his life and seen with his own eyes the Kirklnd’s Empire collapse in such a way until there was only a name and history to tell it’s story, he could almost have believed all was well.

But as it was, he was there for business. And business did not allow room for pity or empathy. Together, they made the perfect receipt for a man’s ruin. And therefore, he was determined to not step back. To not give up to Arthur Kirkland, no matter how convincing the man could be.

“I’m not lending you any money, mon cher. Je suis désolé. God knows you and your brothers have buried enough as it is on this place and that project of yours. A fortune, really. I’m not letting you loose mine as well”, said the Frenchman, emphatically, but without losing his class, while calmly sipping his wine. “Admit it. You are done. If I were you, I’d try investing in something new. Maybe going to Cambridge, you’re smart and still have enough name to manage it. But this place has no future, Arthur, and you’ll have to accept it eventually. I’m telling you this as friend."

At this, the Englishman scoffed, landing his own glass on the table.

“We’ve never been friends”, said he, pointedly not looking at Francis.

“That’s true. We’ve been rather more than just friends in the past, haven’t we? We were lovers, I’d say, but that too is in the past”

Those had been the most beautiful days, thought Francis, nostalgically. Of youth, sinful parties, secret gardens and two boys very much in love. Of eyes as green as the grass right after the first spring rain, full of joy, curiosity and mischief.

But also those times were long past, and it was of no use reminiscing about them right now.

“Yes, since you married my sister”, barked the other back. Despite the collection in his voice, Francis could feel the cold and hatred in it.

“We were both nobles, it was only expected. Besides, your father was rather desperate for money at the time and would do anything for it, even basically selling her to the richest man who wanted the poor woman. Luckily, she was quite lovely on her own right, blessed be her soul.”

“Oh yes, I had forgotten you two managed to get along just fine, after all. It’s a pity, really, what that illness did to her.”

He didn’t look sad though, not in the slightest. In fact, the Englishman sported a rather disconcerting smirk, and his eyes told tales of mischief. Francis felt a chill run down his spine.

Something was amiss. He didn’t know what yet, but he must be careful.

“In fact”, continued the other, standing up abruptly and starting to slowly pace the room, surrounding the Frenchman’s chair, hands clasped behind his back. “If we really look in to it, all my siblings have perished of this same illness. It must run in the family, I suppose”.

In this exact moment, Francis started to feel a rather alarming loss of air. Suddenly, he couldn’t breath.

“And none of them have left any heirs. Not even your late wife, my beloved sister. What a shame.”

He tried loosing up the collar of his shirt, hitting his own chest violently, but it was all to no avail. By the time he started coaching, blood would be spilled from his mouth.

And Arthur did nothing to help. Partly covered by the shadows, still he remained in his composed posture, as if posing for a photograph, part of the furniture. The image of a grim reaper, ready to take the lives of anyone who tried to stop him from achieving his goals.

As Francis collapsed to the floor, already half concious, the other man bent over him with a quite changed expression. His eyes were half open, and looked loving at him, a shy smile trying to scape his lips. In his delirious state of mind, Francis could swear the person in front of him was 20 years younger, and not the one who had just taken his life

“I wish you could see yourself dear, hair scattered everywhere, completely tousled, all rumpled clothes… Oh, how you’d have hated it.”, the man gave a tiny laugh as he knelt beside him and started to caress his face. “It’s a pity that things have come to this end, really, but as you’ve said yourself in your letters, ‘friends, friends, business aside'…”

In a last, desperate move, Francis grabbed the other’s collar and pulled him down to a kiss. It was chaste and aggressive, but even given the situation, there was no denning that he had missed the sensation, the sent, the everything of that madman.

Maybe they were both mad then. Maybe it was only right that they ended this way.

With this last though, it was with a remarkable calm and peace of mind that he grabbed one of the knifes he had knocked off the table in his desperate fight for air just seconds before, and stabbed Arthur. Right in the heart.

“Oh… But mon amour…”, said he, the words slow, being dragged by his poison anaesthetized tong “We have never been friends.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr! I'm @aphport there <3


End file.
